


Ghosts and Witnesses

by Northernsociety



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is a Mess, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Caring George Washington, Cold Weather, Eventual Relationships, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Forbidden Love, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Rating May Change, Sad George Washington, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Soft George Washington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26791987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northernsociety/pseuds/Northernsociety
Summary: Already struggling with the effects of a freezing cold winter, Alexander receives a letter with very bad news. Meanwhile, Washington is concerned about his chief of staff and makes a promise to himself to help Alexander in any way he can. As tensions build, can Alexander rid himself of the ghosts of his past and make room for a brighter future?
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 13
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

Alexander sits at his desk, turning his quill over and over in his hand. All of the other aides have gone to grab a precious few hours of sleep, but he remains in the silent workroom. It isn’t unusual for him to be the last one to bed, scribbling furiously on reams and reams of foolscap until his fingers and face are smudged with ink. But tonight he isn’t writing. He is thinking.

 _John Laurens_. A subject that, granted, is never too far away from his mind at the best of times. But today his best friend – for want of a better description – has occupied every corner of his mind, filling his every waking moment with the simplest of memories as vivid as if they happened only yesterday.

Of course, they _didn’t_ happen only yesterday. Laurens has been away for several months, supporting the war effort in South Carolina, and while his letters have been irregular at best, Alexander has never felt his absence in as much raw detail as he does now that he is almost certain the worst has happened. He received a note from a mutual friend who had been fighting alongside Laurens, and while the letter was careful not to persuade against any hope that Laurens might still be alive, Alexander knows only too well the harsh realities of war. To be captured by the British is as good as a death sentence, and no one has heard otherwise for several long weeks.

Alexander starts as the quill tumbles from his fingers, spattering ink over the blank foolscap in front of him. Fortunately, none has gone onto the sleeve of his jacket or his shirt – that would require cleaning he has neither time nor energy for. His fingers are ice cold as he tries to crumple the stained foolscap and he curses under his breath at his clumsiness. The season has changed with a violence he is unprepared for, winter settling like a heavy hand, squeezing the life and warmth out of everything. Truth be told, that is part of the reason he likes to work late. Sleep is hard to come by in his freezing tent, and while the workroom is only marginally warmer, staying fully clothed and occupying his thoughts with other things makes the cold a touch more bearable.

‘Hamilton.’

He rises to his feet at the sound of the General’s voice, trying not to wince as his frozen feet fill with blood again. ‘Sir?’

‘Shouldn’t you be in bed? It’s almost midnight.’

‘Yes sir,’ says Alexander. ‘I was just on my way.’

He tries to cap the ink and tidy away his quill, but his numb fingers are too clumsy to make the task look graceful. He hopes Washington doesn’t notice.

‘The winter must be a struggle for you,’ says Washington, glancing at the stained Alexander’s purple-tinged lips and fingernails.

‘I suppose so, sir,’ replies Alexander, a flush of shame tinging his cheeks. He knows he should be more used to the vicious seasons after several years, but his childhood in St Croix has ill-prepared him for such extremes in temperature. It’s a weakness he tries to hide at all costs, but apparently he has failed to conceal it from the General.

‘You look frozen half to death.’

‘I apologise, sir,’ replies Alexander, looking down at his feet.

‘It wasn’t a criticism, young man.’ Washington observes him curiously and Alexander resists the urge to apologise once more. ‘Even the toughest soldiers find it a struggle when the snow settles.’

‘It’s not so much the snow,’ says Alexander. ‘It’s the cold that just doesn’t seem to move from your bones. I’m not used to that at all. But the snow is rather beautiful.’

‘Yes, I’ve always thought so too. I’ve grown to love the winter over the years.’

‘Well, good night sir,’ says Alexander after a beat. He’s not used to making small talk with the General like this, despite all the hours they spend alone together in his office, with Washington thinking out loud, Alexander transforming his every fleeting thought into elegant prose. In fact, contrary to the belief of the rest of camp, he barely knows the General at all. ‘I’ve finished all your communications for the day. You’ll find them on your desk.’

‘Thank you, my boy,’ replies Washington as Alexander heads for the door. If he notices the term of endearment he uses, he doesn’t show it. ‘I… I heard about young Mr Laurens by the way.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Awfully tragic news. I know how close you two were.’

Alexander’s eyes widen, a flush returning to his cheeks for the second time in five short minutes.

‘To lose a best friend in such circumstances must be very difficult for you. I hope you know you have a family here, Hamilton. I don’t pretend to know much about your past other than what I can deduce, but I know about your present. You’re never alone while you’re here.’

Alexander feels a lump rise in his throat. The day has been too long already, and the cracks in his carefully crafted veneer are beginning to strain at Washington’s kind words. But he _cannot_ cry in front of his General. He _will not_ cry. He blinks hard against the tears threatening to spill and succeeds in holding them at bay for a moment. How did Washington know the exact words he needed to hear?

‘Thank you, sir,’ he manages, hoping the quiver of his voice isn’t obvious.

***

Washington watches as Hamilton steps out into the wintery deluge. He has been worried about him for a while – long before the news of Laurens’ disappearance, truth be told. Normally such a vivacious, lively member of camp, it felt like Hamilton retreated into himself as soon as the leaves began to fall and the temperature began to drop. Washington knows very little about Hamilton, other than he is not used to the changing seasons and his parents are no longer part of his life – that much he can tell by the independent, single-mindedness with which Hamilton throws himself into every task. But other than those small inklings, he knows nothing of how the young genius came to be here. It’s an uncomfortable truth, considering how much time they spend in such close quarters.

He wants to ask – and he has come close many times when they are alone in his office, working by candlelight into the small hours. But something always stops him. It seems too… _intimate._

He shakes his head as the word crosses his mind. He can’t follow that thought any further or he will start to dwell on how much he cherishes those nights when it is just the two of them. How the sight of Hamilton’s slight frame hunched over the small desk in Washington’s study drags out a protective instinct that Washington barely manages to contain. No, he definitely can’t think about any of that.

Instead, he makes his way back to his own room where he finds the pile of correspondence waiting neatly on his desk. Each one is written in Hamilton’s own elegant handwriting with Washington’s signature forged underneath. Washington sifts through, marvelling at the remarkable turns of phrase he couldn’t master if he spent a month on each one. His heart aches at the thought of Hamilton sitting alone, freezing cold in the workroom below, his hand never ceasing its fluid movement as those perfect words flow freely from his quill.

He makes a promise to himself as he reaches the last sheet, purposefully vague in the way he words it to himself. After all, he doesn’t want to think about this too hard. The simple fact of the matter is that Hamilton has become indispensable to him. He has lost his best friend, and the long, freezing nights are bound to be taking their toll on him too. If he can get to know the boy a little better, perhaps he can protect him against the worst of the winter still to come. Nothing too noticeable – just a helping hand when Hamilton might need it most.


	2. Chapter 2

_‘Whoa!’_

_Alexander pulls his horse to a sudden stop as they enter the clearing, just south of the river. He hasn’t ridden far from camp – just far enough to have a moment to himself. But standing beneath the trees on the other side of the clearing is a familiar figure. The slim frame, the blond hair pulled back immaculately into a queue._

_‘Laurens?’_

_The figure doesn’t move, so Alexander urges his horse forward, squinting against the low winter sun. His eyes are watering in the chilly evening air, but he’s sure they are not deceiving him._

_‘Hey,’ says Alexander, stopping his mount once more. This time he’s close enough to touch Laurens, but still his friend doesn’t move. He stands rigidly, as if to attention, staring somewhere just beyond the trees._

_Alexander reaches out a trembling hand, desperate to feel that it really is Laurens standing right in front of him. He recoils in horror when his fingertips make no contact with firm flesh. They brush only through empty air._

_'_ Alexander!’

_He tries to grab Laurens more firmly, trying to wrap his hands around muscular bicep. It feels like his hands aren’t working properly as they seize fistfuls of nothing._

‘Mon ami! Wake up!’

Alexander groans, suddenly wide awake. His hands are squeezing a pair of slim shoulders that he recognises moments later as belonging to Lafayette. Lafayette has his arms around him, gently rubbing him on the back, trying to rouse him from his dream. Or nightmare, more accurately.

‘God, sorry Laf,’ mutters Alexander, loosening his grip on his friend. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

‘Oui, I would agree.’

Alexander rubs a hand over his face, trying to catch his breath. It’s not unusual for him to wake up in Lafayette’s bed these days, limbs tangled together, blankets pulled close. The cold is so unbearable that most of the soldiers are keen to share body heat through the night and Lafayette has never turned him away, even when he has tried to slip in beside him in the small hours after a long session taking dictation from Washington. It’s a comfortable arrangement.

‘You’re very warm,’ says Lafayette, lifting a hand to Alexander’s forehead. ‘Do you feel quite well?’

Alexander nods, but as he does so, he feels a twinge in the glands at his throat. Not a good sign, but no reason to loll around in bed all day. It’s probably a side-effect of trying to call out in his dream.

‘Come on,’ says Alexander, first to disentangle himself from the knot of limbs and blankets. His voice sounds rough, as it sometimes does on a morning when he first wakes up. ‘These communications are not going to write themselves.’

‘Indeed not.’

They dress in silence, which is a quick affair due to the fact that they remained almost fully clothed to retain as much body heat as possible.

Alexander shivers violently as they step out of the tent. The sun has not yet risen, but the camp is already starting to buzz with life as soldiers and aides begin their daily business.

‘I’m sick of this damn weather,’ mutters Alexander, his voice still raw. ‘It’s driving me mad.’

Lafayette nods in agreement as they stride towards the workroom, trying to cover as much ground as quickly as possible. Alexander can see his breath clouding in front of his face as they practically run towards the relative warmth.

Washington is already up, pacing the workroom and barking orders are the few aides who are already there and working. It’s unusual that Alexander isn’t the first one at his desk, but he feels more exhausted than usual and is glad for the sliver of extra sleep.

‘Hamilton!’ barks Washington as soon as the duo set foot across the threshold. ‘See me upstairs please.’

Alexander nods, glancing with puzzlement at Lafayette. His uniform is neat and tidy, he isn’t late per se – just not as early as usual. He follows Washington up the stairs, briefly overjoyed as he remembers there will be a lit fire in the room. A few moments of warmth will be welcome.

‘My boy,’ says Washington as he closes the door behind them. ‘You look horrendous.’

There it is again. That strange term of endearment that has never encroached on their interactions before now.

‘Apologies, sir.’

Washington sighs. ‘Not everything is a criticism. I’m worried about you.’

‘Worried?’

Alexander’s voice is noticeably rough around the edges. He feels beads of sweat begin to pool on his forehead despite the fact he is standing nowhere near the fire.

‘Do you have a fever?’

‘No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.’

Washington closes the gap between them in an instant, raising one large hand to Hamilton’s brow. The gesture is so unexpected, Hamilton almost takes a step back in surprise but corrects himself in time. Washington’s hand is firm and grounding against his sweat-soaked skin.

‘You’re burning up, Hamilton.’

It strikes Hamilton to apologise again, but he swallows it down and waits for Washington to speak again.

‘Take yourself back to bed and get some proper rest.’

‘Sir! I’m absolutely…’

‘That’s an order, Hamilton.’

Alexander ponders the unfairness of it. He can’t imagine an idle day in bed, his thoughts left to run wild with nothing else to occupy them. He feels perfectly fine – well, apart from the pounding that’s starting up in his head and his painful glands – and he would much rather be with others in the bustling workroom. He has so far managed to avoid thinking too hard about Laurens, or about anything else for that matter. He has perfectly engineered activity into every part of his day, not a second to spare for the dark thoughts that sometimes bury themselves deep inside him.

‘But…’

A flash of anger passes through Washington’s expression at the blatant insubordination. But then his features rearrange themselves into something softer – an expression Hamilton has never seen on the face of his General before.

‘You need to take better care of yourself, Hamilton. You’ll be no good to any of us if you work yourself into an early grave.’

Alexander blinks in surprise at the softness in Washington’s voice. He would gladly work himself into an early grave if it meant some part of his life had meaning. He has never been good at sitting around – he has never wasted a moment of his life doing nothing when he could be doing _something_. And now that Laurens is gone, he isn’t keen to have the time on his hands to explore that particular hole in his heart at any great length. Certainly not right now when it is all so raw and fresh.

He nearly says all of this out loud, but the curious expression on Washington’s face stops him short. If Washington is _worried_ about him, it is surely his job to show that there is in fact nothing to worry about. Pouring his heart and soul out when Washington already suspects he is weak is probably not a good move. Instead, he moderates himself, trying to hide the scratch in his voice.

‘Honestly, sir. I am more than fine. It is nothing more than a winter cold. I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness and excuse myself from work when I am more than capable of carrying out my tasks.’

‘Very well,’ says Washington with a sigh. ‘But please come to me if you feel worse throughout the day. I am concerned about your temperature, but only you can decide whether it warrants a day in bed.’

Alexander nods. In a curious moment before he makes his exit, his eyes linger on Washington’s strong fingers. He remembers the General’s touch to his forehead – somehow different to the Lafayette’s gesture in bed that morning. Perhaps he is getting delirious after all.

***

Several hours later, Washington makes his way down to the workroom. He’s not surprised that Hamilton has caught a cold – there is a draft blowing in from somewhere, but the air is still thick and stuffy with the proximity of so many aides, chatting and laughing as they go about their daily tasks.

As he makes his way around the room, resolving queries and dishing out orders, he spots Hamilton in the corner, looking significantly worse than when he last saw him. He calls Lafayette over to him, noticing that he too is looking at Hamilton with more than an ounce of worry in his eyes.

‘What on earth has happened to Hamilton?’

‘He has a raging fever, General. I tried to tell him to go to bed or at least to see you about it, but he will not take my advice.’

Washington glances once more at the pitiful figure of Hamilton hunched over his desk. He’s not writing – it looks like he can barely sit up, never mind hold a quill. As they watch him, Hamilton glances suddenly out of the window with wide eyes.

‘Ah, yes,’ says Lafayette slowly. Hesitantly. ‘I believe he’s hallucinating too. But he absolutely forbade me from seeking any help. It has been quite a morning trying to convince him that Laurens’ ghost is not outside the workroom. I have persuaded him a not to go outside to check, but that doesn’t stop him staring.’

Washington blinks. _Laurens’ ghost?_

‘There’s nothing and no one there, sir,’ replies Lafayette, noticing the look on Washington’s face. ‘But Hamilton thinks there is.’

‘Thank you, Lafayette,’ says Washington, patting his aide on the arm as he makes his way towards Hamilton. ‘Hopefully I can talk some sense into the boy.’

As Washington approaches, he sees the sweat beading on Hamilton’s brow. His cheeks are flushed but the rest of his skin is deathly pale apart from the dark circles beneath his eyes. Hamilton does not remove his gaze from the window and Washington notices the almost desperate, hungry look in his eyes as he observes the snow-covered wilderness.

‘Hamilton,’ he whispers, shaking the boy by the arm. He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to the situation, although Hamilton’s condition is hardly subtle. ‘Look at me, son.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ responds Hamilton, his whole body stiffening in panic. ‘Please don’t call me that.’

‘Alright,’ says Washington, resting his hand on the boy’s forearm. Hamilton’s tension and confusion are going to cause a problem in trying to get him back to bed. It crosses his mind to send for help from the medical tent, but Hamilton would not thank him for getting him stretchered away in front of the whole team of aides. And there is nothing that can be done for him there that cannot be done here. ‘Can you stand up for me?’

‘Are we going to see Laurens?’

‘No, Hamilton. We’re going up to my room where I can take a better look at you.’

‘But he’ll wonder why we don’t go to him. You see him, don’t you? He’s just there.’

Washington looks out of the window at the barren landscape beyond the workroom. Despite himself, his heart starts thumping as he scans the view for a hint of what Hamilton might be seeing. Of course he knows it’s impossible, but the thought makes him uneasy just the same.

‘Come on, my boy,’ says Washington, guiding Hamilton to his feet, supporting him as he takes a few wobbly steps. ‘We’ll talk more upstairs.’


	3. Chapter 3

_Alexander is back in the clearing once again. Laurens smiles this time as he approaches. He dismounts from his horse – a beautiful grey creature that Laurens has always been fond of – and approaches his friend tentatively._

_Laurens reaches up and brushes the hair out of Alexander’s face, letting his fingers graze his cheekbone as he does so. But something doesn’t feel right. Alexander can feel the clamminess of his own skin beneath Laurens’ fingers. His throat is burning and his head pounding as he tries to focus on the impossible sight of the only person he’s ever truly loved standing there in front of him._

_The image swims in front of him as he tries to reach once again for Laurens. Everything is strange and fuzzy and he tries to call out, but the words stick in his throat_.

Alexander coughs himself awake, wincing at the aches and pain that spring into life as he tries to clear his lungs. He opens his eyes, the light far too bright as he tries to take in his surroundings. A familiar place, but he’s certain he’s never woken up here before.

Then there’s a hand on his forehead – solid and warm. Washington.

Alexander tries to scramble upright, but Washington pushes him back, whispering something soothing that he can’t quite process in the panic of being seen lying down, sleeping in front of the General. In his General’s _bed_. He coughs harder, the pain in his ribs and back almost bringing tears to his eyes.

‘I’m… so… sorry,’ he pants, trying to gather his breath. ‘Sir, I promise…’

‘Hamilton, listen to me for one second. Please.’

‘Sir…’

‘Hamilton!’

Alexander freezes at the stern command, his thousands of words of apology caught somewhere in his chest. Washington is standing over him, his hand still on his shoulder. He doesn’t look angry.

‘Listen to me, for once in your life,’ he says. ‘You’re very, very ill. No, before you start apologising again let me finish. I brought you up here to let you rest, but before we made it to the top of the stairs, you passed out.’

Alexander’s eyes widen. He vaguely remembers being in the workroom and then following Washington to the staircase, but he had been busy trying to find… _Laurens._

‘Sir, what about Laurens? He was outside. Did someone go and fetch him?’

‘You were hallucinating, my boy,’ says Washington, an expression of pity clouding his features. ‘You’re extremely ill and we need to get this fever down. I moved you up here and made sure a doctor came to see you, but other than that, the only thing we can do is ride this out.’

Alexander feels a stab of mortification at the thought of Washington having to carry him the rest of the way up the stairs. It also hasn’t escaped his notice that Washington said ‘we’ when talking about his recovery. Surely the General himself can’t be expected to attend to him? And they can’t stay here in Washington’s private room… It would be an insult to the General to take over his bed and his time.

He moves to get up, realising he has been stripped down to his shirt and breeches. It’s probably for the best considering how clammy his skin feels, sweat pooling in the small of his back.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ demands Washington, pushing him back down once more. ‘Do you not understand how ill you are?’

‘I can’t exactly stay here, sir,’ says Hamilton, gesturing to the bed and the crumpled blankets, his head pounding as he moves.

‘Why not? I’ve been briefed on how to help you recover. What you need most is somewhere warm, dry and comfortable to rest. And someone to keep an eye on you.’

‘But sir, surely not you?’

‘I’m perfectly capable. I’ve cleared my schedule for the next few days. Nothing is so urgent it can’t wait – especially now the snow has settled and not much movement is going on, either from us or the British. I can work mainly from my desk here.’

Alexander nods slowly. It makes sense. While life is always busy at a war camp, the harsh weather has impeded any potential manoeuvres from either side. Most of the urgent work is written.

‘Now sleep, young man. You need to rest, otherwise you’ll be putting us both out of action for even longer.’

Alexander smiles as he sinks back onto the soft pillows. Washington brings his hand to his brow again and Alexander relaxes against the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. He’s still burning hot – he can feel the difference in temperature between his skin and Washington’s – and his throat feels like someone has poured scalding water straight down it.

But he listens to the wind howling outside and feels grateful that he’s here and not out there. The sound slowly lulls him down, down, down until he’s back in the clearing again.

***

Washington watches as Hamilton falls deeper and deeper into a feverish sleep. He tries not to replay the moment his eyes fluttered shut at his touch, but he can still feel the tingle of his fingertips where they brush Hamilton’s skin. Dwelling on what that might mean is a dangerous game, so Washington chooses instead to stoke the fire and then return to his work. It will be much slower without Hamilton to help, but he has time. And keeping his mind off the sleeping figure curled up in his bed is not a bad thing.

Hours pass as Washington works and Hamilton sleeps, occasionally moaning softly as he turns over, his aches and pains aggravated by the movement. He looks peaceful enough, although Washington knows he will have to rouse him soon to get some water into him. He is still sweating and has had very little to drink – a dangerous combination.

As Washington approaches the bed with a full cup, he hears Hamilton mutter something under his breath. Then a gentle sob as Hamilton twists and turns under the covers.

‘Mama, I’m so cold. It’s too cold here.’

Washington’s freezes and takes a moment to gather himself. He feels like an intruder into Hamilton’s vulnerability. He has no permission to be here, to witness this, but there is nothing else for it. Hamilton’s skin is covered in goosebumps and he’s starting to shiver. Another symptom of the fever.

‘Can you sit up, my boy?’ he touches his forearm lightly, running his fingers along the goosefleshy skin. ‘We need to get some fluids into you.’

Hamilton mutters sleepily, frowning at the interruption. He scrabbles around, trying to get comfortable again, his hand closing over Washington’s arm. He’s shivering violently now – Washington can feel it running right through his body.

‘Hamilton, please wake up,’ he says, trying to shake him awake a bit more forcefully, but Hamilton’s fingers just dig in harder. ‘Please.’

Hamilton defiantly refuses to return to this world, muttering and gripping Washington tighter as the shivers strengthen. Washington puts the cup down, afraid that one of them will spill it, and uses his free hand to soothe the boy, running his fingers through his hair. He feels so useless and it seems like such a small act of comfort to offer.

‘Mama?’

‘No, my boy,’ says Washington, brushing his fingertips across Hamilton’s brow as if to smooth out the frown etched there. ‘Please just wake up and take a drink.’

Hamilton wriggles again, his eyes fluttering open as he tries to turn over but is held in place by Washington’s hand on his arm and in his hair.

‘Here,’ says Washington, handing him the cup of water, helping him to take a sip as he is shaking too hard to hold the cup to his own lips.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers, taking a welcome mouthful of water.

‘Hamilton, what have I told you about apologising? Just let me take care of you. You’re not a burden in any way. I want to do this.’

Washington knows he has struck a nerve by the look on the boy’s face. He doesn’t look scared, repulsed, shocked or any of the things Washington fears. But he is staring at Washington with a strange clarity that he doesn’t quite understand.

‘Are you cold?’ asks Washington, tucking the blankets tighter around Hamilton. ‘I’ll see if I can get some more warmth out of the fire.’

Hamilton nods, his eyes falling shut again. It should be impossible from him to sleep through the violent shakes he’s currently suffering, but Washington watches with relief as his face relaxes and sleep takes him once again.


	4. Chapter 4

Washington is on alert for the rest of the evening, removing blankets when Hamilton is warm, cooling his brow with a cloth. Wrapping him up when he starts to shiver, pressing as many cups of water to his parched lips as he can manage during the more lucid moments. It’s torturous to watch, work no longer a big enough distraction.

Hamilton doesn’t call out again for his mother, but whenever he wakes, Washington notices his eyes flicking to the corner of the room, between the door and the fireplace. Whatever he is seeing doesn’t seem to scare him and Washington wonders if it is Laurens again.

He would not be surprised. He knows how close Hamilton and Laurens were – just how close had been confirmed by the flush that crept across Hamilton’s cheeks when Washington mentioned it in the workroom the night before. They had been almost inseparable at camp, and Washington had always suspected something more. He had gone out of his way to never find out, to never pry – it’s a dangerous secret after all. But he had always been curious. Hamilton had long since fascinated him, and this was another mysterious part of his life that he could not fathom.

Hamilton stirs, moaning loudly as a violent shiver wracks his body. He is wrapped tightly in as many blankets as Washington can find, but it doesn’t seem to help a bit. Washington sits down beside him on the edge of the bed, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of the boy’s face.

‘What do you need, my boy?’ he whispers, feeling utterly lost as to how best help the trembling boy lying in his bed. Hamilton moans again, leaning into the touch of Washington’s hand at his hair, soothed by the warm, solid fingers against his skin. He is probably not even conscious of his actions, but Washington thrills at the thought that Hamilton needs him or is comforted by his presence in some way. It emboldens him to make the next logical step, not thinking too hard about what he is about to do.

Slipping his boots off, he coaxes Hamilton a few inches across the bed, leaving just enough space so he can curl up on the edge. He doesn’t slide under the blankets – that would be far too _intimate._ That word again.

He has never been susceptible to the cold, especially in his room where the fire can build enough heat through the day. He hopes that by staying fully clothed and stealing some of Hamilton’s feverish warmth, he can stave off most of the cold overnight. Hamilton is still shivering, wrapped in his cocoon of blankets, as Washington pulls him close. His arms encircle the bundle, Hamilton’s head tucked beneath his chin, his nose buried against his chest. Washington is almost certain the sigh he hears has a note of contentment to it, and slowly, the torturous shivers being to ease as Hamilton stills for the first time in what seems like hours.

Washington doesn’t intend to sleep, but exhaustion overtakes him in the newly found silence. He closes his eyes and starts to drift, listening to Hamilton breathing more evenly than he has done all day.

***

Alexander spends two days drifting in and out of consciousness. He is aware at times of Washington’s presence. Other times, he feels all lost at sea. The one thing that brings him back is Washington’s arms around him through the worst of the shivers, warming him and grounding him until he can breathe properly again. His muscles ache from shaking, but the warm weight of Washington is a welcome distraction.

The impropriety would alarm him on any other occasion, but he cannot be ungrateful for Washington right now. Those solid hands brushing his feverish skin, those muscular arms holding him through the worst of the fever. He has always been in awe of the General – Laurens used to tease him about it relentlessly. But his awe is slowly shifting into something new as he grows accustomed to the bulk of his commanding officer lying beside him through his darkest moments.

He doesn’t dwell too much on the _something new_ as that stirs up something else within his heart. He sees Laurens every time he opens his eyes. And every time he closes them too. Logically he knows that it isn’t _really_ Laurens, but the disapproving look on his face feels as real as anything else in this hazy existence. Guilt, confusion, unnerving contentment unlike anything he has every experienced before – the hours pass slowly, filled with an abundance of feeling that Hamilton is unaccustomed to.

Washington stirs beside him, opens his eyes and smiles when he sees that Hamilton is awake at last.

‘Good morning,’ says Washington in a low voice. ‘You’ve stopped shivering.’

Hamilton nods. He does feel a lot better, albeit very achy and sore from such a violent fever.

Washington stretches and stands, and Hamilton almost cries out at the loss of the warm weight around him. To be needy is a new sensation, and he’s not sure what to do with it – especially when it’s directed at the General.

‘First things first,’ says Washington, straightening out his crumpled uniform. ‘While you’re awake, you’re going to drink a whole jug of water. I’ve been trying to keep you hydrated, but I’m sure a good long drink won’t do you any harm at all.’

Washington sits on the edge of the bed while he drinks, watching him the whole time with a curious expression on his face. Hamilton parses it as relief mingled with exhaustion. He has no idea how much or how little Washington has slept the last few days.

‘I have been so worried about you,’ says Washington, taking the jug from Hamilton as he finishes the last few drops. ‘I couldn’t wake you at times.’

‘It’s been a strange few days,’ replies Hamilton in lieu of the apology that was about to slip off his tongue

‘Indeed it has, my boy.’ Hamilton’s stomach flutters at the term of endearment. ‘You should sleep. Your body has just fought a very nasty illness.’

‘As should you, sir,’ he replies. He hesitates, then shifts so he can raise a corner of the blanket. As obvious an invitation as he can muster in his current state.

Washington stares for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Hamilton sees a flash of something in his eyes, before his General composes himself again.

‘Hamilton…’

‘You look exhausted, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Washington smiles at Hamilton’s nerve. The boy has always had a knack of overstepping the mark in the most endearing way possible. He slips out of his jacket, rolls up his shirtsleeves and slides under the corner of the blanket held up by Hamilton. They both shuffle around in an awkward dance to find an appropriate position. Yet Washington is keen not to have _too_ much distance between them for reasons he has yet to address himself. And by the way he burrows back against Washington’s chest, moulding the curve of his body to his General’s, Hamilton clearly feels the same.


	5. Chapter 5

Alexander sits alone in the workroom, the sun having set long ago. His muscles still ache from the savage fever that had raged through his body, his mind still foggy from the confusing days and nights spent in his General’s bed, dreaming wildly. He had occupied another realm entirely for some hours, the ghostly presences of his mother and John Laurens constant companions. He does not like to dwell on how ill he had really been.

The time spent with the dead had made it difficult to return to the land of the living. He had awoken in Washington’s arms, shocked by the knowledge that it was Alexander himself who had _invited_ him there. The warmth of his General’s embrace was a stark contrast to the fleeting figures that occupied his dreams, a welcome distraction from the ghosts of his past who would not let him rest. But Washington is not Laurens. He is not his mother. He is his commanding officer, a General, a firm and sometimes cruel man, and Alexander had taken advantage of a moment of softness that should not have been his to take.

He had scrambled out of bed at the first sign of the sun, careful not to wake the General as he untangled himself from the mess of blankets. He had long outstayed his welcome and it was time for him to return to the land of the living, at least in body, if not in spirit.

The candle is burning low as he tries to concentrate on his work. None of it is urgent, but a restless energy thrums quietly in his veins. If he retires to bed, he will not sleep. He will shiver and think. Instead he writes, his pace much slower than usual, trying not to listen hopefully for a heavy tread on the stairs that would signal Washington has come to find him.

It is almost 1am when Washington finally does descend the stairs into the workroom. Alexander rises to his feet, setting his quill down carefully so as not to blot ink all over his work.

‘I thought I might find you here,’ says Washington, no hint of admonishment in his tone. Alexander had expected a scolding for still being in the workroom at such an ungodly hour, but Washington’s expression is soft – almost sad.

‘Yes, I’m just finishing up the last of the correspondence for tomorrow. It may as well all go out with the first rider.’

‘We both know that’s unnecessary. The snow is so heavy that not much is coming or going.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ replies Alexander. ‘But I like to keep on top of things.’

‘I believe that to be true, Hamilton. But I do wonder whether something else keeps you from rest.’

Alexander does not meet Washington’s gaze. It feels as if his skin is transparent and Washington can see into the very heart of him. There are so many parts of himself he would rather keep hidden, and he wonders which of them Washington has sensed.

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘You should be resting, young man. You were gravely ill not twenty-four hours ago. Yet here you are, distracting yourself with work that does not need your attention right now. What are you avoiding?’

‘The cold?’ offers Alexander, tension making it sound more like a question than an answer.

‘Partially true,’ replies Washington. ‘But then why not go to Lafayette? This workroom is surely colder than sharing body heat and blankets in the comfort of a tent?’

Washington takes a step towards Alexander. It is becoming increasingly difficult to avoid his gaze at such close range, but Alexander cannot bear to look up and see the pity that is surely colouring the General’s expression. He feels like an open book – it is an unfamiliar sensation and one that he does not relish. Where he is able to fool others, Laurens included, Washington is sniffing precariously close to the inner life Alexander much prefers to keep locked tightly away.

Fingers curl beneath Alexander’s chin, surprisingly soft and warm despite the chill in the room.

‘Talk to me, Hamilton,’ says Washington quietly, tilting Alexander’s head until he has no choice but to look him directly in the eye. Alexander does not see the pity he feared there, but rather a tentative curiosity, and that is perhaps what breaks him. Washington wants to _know_ him, and that is something that Alexander has never let happen before.

***

Hamilton weakens beneath Washington’s fingertips. It’s as if months of exhaustion have caught up with him all at once, causing him to twist away weakly, grabbing Washington by the forearms as his legs struggle to hold him upright any longer.

‘Steady,’ says Washington, guiding the boy back down into his chair, crouching down so as to remain at the same level. ‘I’ve got you.’

Hamilton starts to sob, letting his head fall onto Washington’s shoulder as he kneels before him. Trembling hands curl into his jacket, pushing and pulling frantically in a haze of indecision and need. Washington allows himself to be guided by the boy, never holding too tight so as not to be easily pushed away. He knows Hamilton is unaccustomed to vulnerability – as he had displayed when scrambling out of Washington’s bed as soon as morning had broken.

He soothes and pacifies, rubbing gentle circles, whispering encouragement and promises – anything that he thinks might be of the smallest comfort to the boy. Hot tears have soaked a patch into the lapel of his jacket but he cannot care about that now.

‘Sir, I don’t know what to do,’ sobs Hamilton at last. He is still breathing heavily, his fingers still curled in the fabric of Washington’s jacket. ‘I can’t… I don’t know…’

Hamilton’s chokes on a flurry of fresh sobs and Washington holds him tighter. He gently untwines the fingers from his jacket, taking them both instead in one of his broad hands. The size difference would be almost humorous on another occasion – Hamilton’s bird-like bones, so fragile, curled in Washington’s enormous fist. Washington holds him, even as the sobs subside and his breathing steadies. His knees are stiff from kneeling before the boy, but he pays little attention to his own aches and pains.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ asks Washington. ‘We can go upstairs where it’s warm.’

Hamilton shakes his head. ‘It’s getting late, sir. I must get some sleep.’

‘Do you think I expect you here bright and early, Hamilton? After this?’

‘You know I would be here, regardless.’

‘You are impossible,’ whispers Washington and Hamilton smiles.

They remain for several moments more, Washington kneeling at Hamilton’s feet, clutching the boy to him. Hamilton’s cheeks are still damp and a few rogue curls have tumbled from his normally perfect queue. Washington aches because this is all he can do to fix whatever is going on in the boy’s heart and mind.

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ asks Washington. ‘Will you be alright?’

Hamilton pulls back, his eyes burning with an unreadable emotion that Washington has seen before but has yet to understand. It makes his gut twist to be so in the dark.

‘No one has ever asked me that before,’ says Hamilton, his voice thick with the undefined emotion. ‘I’ve only ever taken care of myself. And we both know how good I am at doing that.’

Washington chuckles, a soft sound that seems to lift a heavy weight from the air around them. ‘Not very.’

Hamilton laughs, hiccoughing at the same time. It’s good to see him smile, despite his tearstained cheeks and rubbed-red eyes. Washington has always adored the way one corner of his mouth quirks up and the corners of his eyes crinkle when his smile is genuine.

He is still kneeling on the floor, Hamilton’s hand still in his, and as the smile fades from Hamilton’s face, there is an alarming beat in which Washington feels a shift. In that heated moment, he almost closes the little space that remains between them to take Hamilton’s mouth in an unbidden kiss. His pulse races at the thought of how close he is to throwing caution to the wind, his breath catching in his throat at the possibilities open before him. Yet he allows the moment to pass. Hamilton’s eyes are locked on his the whole time as though he can read every thought that races through Washington’s mind.


	6. Chapter 6

The General pulls back, dropping Alexander’s hands from his. Alexander’s self-restraint betrays him and he whines at the loss of contact, making an involuntary movement to follow the comforting warmth and strength of Washington’s hands. Washington’s eyes widen as he realises a plethora of truths all at once.

Alexander had of course seen the desire written all across Washington’s face. If he were being honest with himself, he had hoped that Washington would act upon it. But Washington’s self-control was both the saving grace and the damnable saboteur.

‘Sir…’ whispers Alexander eventually. He does not know how to put into words the multitude of feelings or the whirlwind of thoughts that have been stirred within him. All he knows is that he does not Washington to go – not like this.

‘I’m so sorry,’ whispers Washington, rising ungracefully to his feet, his joints cracking as he straightens out. ‘Forgive me, Hamilton.’

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ says Alexander, rising to his feet too. It is a much less impressionable manoeuvre – he feels so small next to the General – but he has to regain control of the situation somehow.

‘Hamilton, I’m not going to insult your intelligence by pretending you don’t realise…’ Washington falters, rubbing his face with his hands. Alexander waits, his head bowed in concession. ‘You’re so vulnerable and – ‘

‘With all due respect, sir, I am not a child.’

Washington’s head snaps up at the rebuke. Alexander takes a step towards him, holding his breath as if the very act of breathing might frighten away the General.

‘You’ve just received news that your lover is almost certainly dead, Hamilton. And I’m _your commanding officer_ ,’ Washington hisses the last phrase as if the very words should shock Alexander into submission.

‘And what do you know or care about either of those things?’ replies Alexander, his tone bordering on scathing. A few days ago, they had been perfect strangers despite working in such close quarters. Now, Washington is professing to know Alexander’s heart.

‘That’s unfair, Hamilton.’

‘Sir,’ Alexander continues, ‘I didn’t mean to sound harsh. But you don’t understand the intricacies of what went on between me and Laurens. I miss him terribly, that much is true, but it wasn’t the love story you’re imagining.’

‘Hamilton… I…’

‘And if you cared about the latter – if you cared for one instant about right and wrong – you would not have climbed into bed on my invitation. You would not be here now, having this discussion. You would have sent me to my tent, no questions asked.’

Washington stands for a moment, his mouth half open as if to express a thought that he can’t quite put into words. Alexander realises they are at a stalemate – further argument with the General, who is almost as stubborn as Alexander himself, would be futile. He makes to move past Washington towards the door, the atmosphere in the room almost too stifling to bear for a moment longer. But he is stopped in his tracks by Washington’s hand on his arm. It is not commanding – rather a gentle request.

‘Don’t, Alexander.’

It is as much the use of his Christian name that shocks him into submission as the desperate expression in Washington’s eyes.

‘Sir?’

Washington still doesn’t speak. Instead, his hand moves down Alexander’s arm, the gesture almost too tender to bear. Long fingers close around Alexander’s hand, pulling him in closer.

‘I don’t pretend to know what I’m doing. This terrifies me, Alexander. But I cannot let you walk out that door.’

Alexander’s heart is racing, the General’s grip tight and desperate around his fingers. ‘Then don’t, sir.’

***

Upstairs, the fire crackles with renewed vigour as Washington tends to it, prodding and poking at the logs until they burn brighter, throwing heat into the chilled room. Alexander is curled up in his bed, exhaustion having overtaken him in a sudden, all-consuming wave as soon as they had ascended the stairs.

Washington pulls off his boots and slides them under the bed, out of the way. He is in equal measures thrilled and apprehensive to have Alexander in his bed with no convenient illness to excuse the need for such proximity. Yet there is also the need to take things slowly – Alexander was sobbing in his arms not half an hour ago, the reason still not adequately explained.

He climbs into bed with the intention of keeping a bit of distance between himself and the boy, at least until he knew exactly what Alexander wants. But no sooner has he settled – turning over on his side and tucking the blankets right up beneath his chin – than Alexander shuffles his position, wriggling his way into the General’s arms. They open without hesitation, pulling him closer until he is wrapped in the safe circle of Washington’s embrace.

‘Are you alright?’ asks Washington, his breath ruffling Alexander’s hair as he speaks.

‘Yes,’ replies Alexander, but Washington feels him stiffen against him. ‘Sir, I want you to know the truth about Laurens.’

‘Go on,’ says Washington, loosening his grip so Alexander can break free at any moment if he feels he needs to. But the boy wriggles indignantly, encouraging Washington’s arms back into position.

‘I… well, he didn’t love me back. Not in the way I wanted him to.’

‘Oh, Alexander,’ breathes Washington, squeezing the boy tighter. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It is what it is,’ says Alexander simply. ‘I knew from the start that what we had could never continue after the war. Laurens was very clear about that. It was a convenient arrangement, but I always hoped he would change his mind. I thought he had at one point.’

‘And you were wrong?’

‘I’ll never know,’ says Alexander. ‘He was posted to South Carolina before I could find the words to ask, and then he disappeared shortly after. Before he’d left, things had been different. I don’t know… Maybe it was just wishful thinking.’

‘I had no idea, Alexander. I’m so sorry.’

‘I miss him terribly, but I want to be in the land of the living. He haunts my every waking moment. I want to move on, sir. But I don’t know how.’

‘And this is what has been upsetting you so much?’

Alexander nods, his eyes fluttering shut in a mixture of relief and shame.

‘Let me tell you something, my boy. One day, someone will love you back in the way deserve, my boy. And when they do, it will be with a ferocity that will match yours.’

‘I hope that is true, sir.’

Washington takes one of Alexander’s hands and presses it against his lips in a chaste kiss. His lips feel rough and chapped in comparison to the smooth skin, but he feels Alexander tremble in his arms at the contact.

‘I promise.’


	7. Chapter 7

The snow crunches beneath Alexander’s boots as he walks, his pace brisk, his head bowed against the biting wind. The sun is low and weak in the dawn sky, casting an eerie yellow glow across the vast expanse of soft white wilderness that spreads out around the camp. Alexander tries to keep near to the trees – while he is not expecting an ambush so close to camp, it is a soldier’s reflex to stay close to shelter at all times.

The steady rhythm of his boots pounding the snow is almost meditative. He likes to walk when he thinks, even if it’s just to pace up and down the workroom. But today’s thoughts are too big to be confined indoors. He slipped out Washington’s bed before dawn broke, pulling on as many layers of clothing as he could find before heading straight out of camp. Washington had stirred only briefly, and Alexander had soothed him back to sleep with a promise that he would be back soon enough – a promise he intends to keep, once he has satisfied his restless mind with the time and space to think.

He pauses for a moment, catching his breath as he surveys the rolling fields ahead of him, naked trees looking as though they have been inked onto the landscape by a zealous painter. It is a deceptive beauty, he thinks, curling his freezing fingers into the sleeves of his coat.

A crunch of snow behind him makes him wheel round, pressing his back to the nearest tree. He breathes in and out through his nose in an attempt to slow down his pulse, scanning the landscape for any hint of movement or anything out of place. He hears a muffled sound, not metres behind him and then a sharp intake of breath that is not his own.

‘Hamilton!’

The voice is familiar, but it is impossible. He briefly wonders if he is dreaming or hallucinating again, but that thought is quickly shoved from his mind with the force of John Laurens flinging himself into Alexander’s arms. It can’t be, but somehow it is.

Laurens in his arms feels as real as the ground beneath his feet. He looks worse for wear than when they last met – his clothing is dirty, his frame less muscular and robust – but he is solid and warm and breathing. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off, but when it does, Alexander throws himself into the embrace with equal fervour.

Hands explore wildly, squeezing muscle and stroking skin. Alexander realises he is sobbing, muttering Laurens’ name over and over in a fractured prayer.

‘Hey,’ whispers Laurens, pulling back, wiping Alexander’s cheek with the back of his hand.

‘What are you _doing_ here?’ whispers Alexander, gripping Laurens tightly by the shoulders, as if the very act of not touching him would make him disappear again in a puff of smoke. ‘I thought you were…’

‘I know, I’m sorry. I wanted to write, but it was too risky.’

Alexander drinks in the sight of him. He looks heavenly in the dawn light, despite his dishevelled clothes and the streaks of dirt on fair skin.

‘Are you really not a ghost?’

‘I’m really not a ghost,’ replies Laurens with a chuckle. ‘Feel.’

He takes Alexander’s hand and presses it to his chest – Alexander can feel a strong and steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Then Laurens raises their hands to his mouth, brushing his lips across Alexander’s skin.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispers with a coy smile. ‘Have you missed me too?’

‘Of course,’ replies Alexander, recognising a familiar glint in Laurens’ eye. Laurens takes a step forward so there’s no space between them. Alexander can feel Laurens’ breath ghost across his cheek as fingers curl beneath his chin. It’s all happening too fast.

‘Alex?’

Laurens is watching his friend with mingled concern and curiosity. Alexander realises he has frozen, cringing away from the touch of the man who used to be his lover.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, staring down at their boots in shame.

Laurens drops his hand from beneath Alexander’s chin. His expression is one of sober understanding as he steps back and puts an appropriate distance back between them.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ says Laurens. ‘It was a bit presumptuous of me.’

‘We should probably head back to camp,’ suggests Alexander, trying to inject a note of lightness into his tone. ‘I’m sure Washington will be very glad to see you.’

***

‘Hamilton, may I speak with you alone? Laurens, go to Lafayette and ask him to find space for you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ says Laurens. ‘I’ll be very glad to see him.’

Once Laurens has left, Washington sinks heavily into his chair, dropping his head into his hands. He does not care that Alexander can read his very heart from that telling gesture.

‘Sir, nothing happened. I promise.’

Washington raises his head in disbelief.

‘You mean…’

‘I couldn’t even kiss him.’

Washington can’t help the shaky sigh of relief that escapes him.

‘My boy, I can’t pretend I’m not happy about that.’

‘I thought you might be,’ says Alexander with a smile. He looks exhausted despite the fact that the sun has not long been up. Washington wishes they could forget about the damned war for one day and crawl back into his bed where they had been so content only several hours ago.

It seems wrong that Laurens’ reappearance could cause him _dis_ content. He should be overjoyed that one of his soldiers escaped being a prisoner of war and survived riding a stolen horse several hundred miles in freezing conditions. But deep down, he is not overjoyed. He is anxious and confused.

‘I know this causes some conflict…’ he begins. But Alexander shushes him, stepping forward to close what little space remains between them. Washington is still sitting, but Hamilton rounds the desk, kneeling on the floor as he takes Washington’s hands in his in a mirror image of their positions in the workroom last night. Washington chokes back a sob – who would have thought they were both so broken?

‘Sir, please don’t talk like that.’

‘But now you can get your answer, Alexander. You thought Laurens might have changed his mind about there being a future for the two of you after the war, and now you can know for certain.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Alexander, squeezing Washington’s hands, as though he could force understanding into him through contact alone.

‘I don’t follow, my boy. You can’t have a change of heart overnight.’

‘It hasn’t just been overnight,’ says Alexander. ‘You know I’m very good at ignoring my heart when it’s convenient.’

‘So, it’s no longer convenient?’

Alexander grins, taking one of his hands to rest on top of Washington’s thigh. It is a tentative gesture, the touch almost butterfly soft. Washington’s breath catches as their gazes lock in mutual understanding. The spark in Alexander’s eyes sends fire through Washington’s veins and he is almost helpless to resist crushing himself against the boy and claiming him in searing kiss.

But Alexander has more tender activities in mind, and Washington lets him set the pace. It is almost chaste when they kiss and Washington realises Alexander has never _really_ been in control. This is the first time he has had a say – in anything – and the innocence of his explorations make Washington want to sob with unguarded affection. But he manages to sit back, all levels of emotion in check, and gratefully accept the gentle touches and the warm mouth against his.


	8. Chapter 8

The room feels empty when Alexander leaves – a feeling Washington is not accustomed to. He has always valued his privacy, much preferring to be alone with his own thoughts than in the company of others. But after the warmth of Alexander’s hands all over him, the innocence of the sweet kisses he bestowed over and over again, Washington is lonely.

Alexander has gone to find Laurens. He can’t be absent from camp all day, as much as Washington wishes he could keep him all for himself. And there is surely a conversation to be had between the two.

Washington has not asked him to keep _them_ secret – he can hardly beg to be saved from disgrace after all that has happened. He knew the risks. He knew the power and privilege of his position and chose to proceed anyway. He hopes that Alexander knows what dangerous ammunition this knowledge would be if he were to hand it to Laurens, but he cannot be the one to ask for it to remain private. It is as much Alexander’s affair as it is his own.

He sits down at his desk and picks up a quill to tackle the mountain of correspondence that has built up in the last few frantic days. There is a lot to be done, but for once he relishes the distraction. He understands why Alexander chooses to busy himself well into the night when his mind is a dangerous place to be. It is therapeutic to feel the time pass without the space for much thought.

He presses on, the pile slowly diminishing as the sun continues its steady arc across the snow-filled sky. One or two pieces cause him hesitation. He has never been one for nuances and clever words, so he sets them aside – perhaps Alexander can help him when night falls.

***

‘Was it just me, or was Washington not all that pleased to see me?’

Laurens is sitting on Alexander’s bedroll, his knees pulled up to his chest, wearing a forlorn expression.

‘He was just shocked,’ replies Alexander, nudging John so he can squeeze into the space next to him. ‘He thought you were dead and then you just march in, larger than life.’

‘Yeah, I guess it must be a bit strange. I thought people would be happy to see me, but everyone is either busy or so surprised they don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t take it personally. I don’t think anyone is expecting a fairy tale in a war camp, so they’re a bit suspicious when one comes along,’ says Alexander.

‘And what about you?’ asks John. ‘Do you believe in fairy tales?’

Alexander looks down at his hands. He knows the question John is asking and he doesn’t know how to go about answering it. Last time they met, he was the one asking for happily ever after once the war had finished. But that’s not the story he wants anymore – it was never the story he was supposed to have, and it has taken Washington’s care and kindness to help him realise that. He wants someone who has loved him from the start, who wants to be with him whatever the cost. But he cannot _say_ this without incriminating himself or Washington.

‘I thought I did,’ he begins carefully.

‘But not anymore?’

‘I’m sorry Laurens. I was heartbroken when you left for South Carolina. I spent a great deal of time trying to fix my own heart, trying to get over the fact that you would never want me in the same way. And then when you… well, when I got the letter… any hope died along with you.’

Laurens nods, turning his face away as tears begin to fall and Alexander allows him the privacy.

‘I know how badly I’ve treated you, Alexander. I let you wait and hope, just to protect my own heart and pride. If I had been honest, we could have been happy. I hope you know how sorry I am and how much I’ll regret this for the rest of my life.’

‘Laurens, please don’t,’ says Alexander, feeling tears prick at the back of his own eyes at the desperate note in his friend’s voice. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

‘Can’t we give it another try?’ pleads Laurens, grabbing for Alexander’s hand. ‘I promise I will worship you like you deserve. You’ll never doubt again how I feel about you.’

Alexander shakes his head desperately, sobbing frantically as he pulls his hands out of Laurens’ grasp.

‘I’m sorry Laurens. I’m so sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too, Alex.’

They fall into each other’s arms, collapsing weakly against each other in a mess of tears and heavy sobs. Laurens’ arms are tight around Alexander, almost too tight, but he allows him this final moment in whatever way he needs. Alexander brushes his hands down Laurens’ broad back, memorising every knob of his spine, almost choking on the over familiar scent of Laurens’ skin. His chest feels tight at the thought that this might be the last time they are together like this.

Finally, Alexander pulls away, straightening his uniform as he stands. He tucks a few stray strands of hair back and wipes his face roughly with the back of his hand.

‘Has Lafayette found you a bed?’ he asks, trying to ignore the sad tug of his heart at the sight of the distressed and dishevelled Laurens still sprawled on his bedroll.

Laurens nods.

‘I’d better get back to work. I’m sure Washington will need my help with some letters. I guess I’ll see you around?’

‘I doubt that,’ says Laurens, his voice still thick with tears. ‘I’m going to request an immediate transfer. There’s no point in me being here, torturing the two of us. I might be able to leave first thing tomorrow if the arrangements can be put in place in time.’

Alexander nods, at a loss for anything else to say or do. He wants to run straight out of the tent and into Washington’s arms, but if these are his last moments with Laurens, he wants to treasure them.

‘Promise me you’ll write?’ he says. ‘I couldn’t bear it if we weren’t friends anymore.’

Laurens smiles sadly.

‘I promise. Maybe not straight away. It will be too painful. But one day, we’ll share stories and memories again like old times. Perhaps we’ll even see each other again somewhere in this big wide world?’

‘That is a wonderful thought.’

***

Alexander manages to make his way unnoticed through the workroom and straight up the stairs to Washington’s private room. The door is ajar, so he slips through, closing it behind him with a click. He knows he must look a mess by the look of shocked concern on Washington’s face as he looks up from his desk.

‘My boy, are you alright?’ he asks, getting to his feet and rounding the desk.

‘No,’ says Alexander truthfully, stepping forwards into Washington’s arms. ‘But I will be. Laurens wants to leave first thing in the morning. It’s probably for the best.’

‘I’m sorry, Alexander.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased?’

‘I am,’ says Washington with a small chuckle. ‘But I know how painful it must be for you. And I never want to see you hurt.’

Alexander buries his head into Washington’s shoulder, breathing in the heady scent of skin and sweat. He feels so safe, so wanted.

‘Sir…’ he whispers tentatively, the word almost a question as he tilts his head towards Washington. In any past relationships, he has never been the one to start these things, but he wants to show Washington just how much he needs him. How much he _wants_ him.

Washington’s eyes darken as he gazes down hungrily at him.

‘Tell me what you need, my boy,’ he says, his voice low and rough with desire, and that is all Alexander needs to take the final leap.

His explorations are rougher this time, tainted with raw need and hunger. He kisses greedily, his hands roaming frantically over almost every inch of Washington’s upper body. Washington returns his kisses with equal passion, soft moans escaping as Alexander’s teeth nip questioningly.

He pulls back with great reluctance as the tension builds to a frenzy. As much as he wants to indulge his boy, he also needs to protect Alexander’s heart. He has had a shock today and Washington needs to know that he truly wants this and it isn’t just another of his distraction techniques.

He holds Alexander, who is now panting in his arms, his cheeks flushed with desire. The boy looks exhausted and offers no resistance as Washington steers him towards the bed, lowering him down gently.

‘We’re not going any further tonight,’ he says firmly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Alexander’s forehead. He half expects the boy to pout and protest, but instead he nods, his eyes fluttering shut. ‘Now, I have some communications to finish, but I want you to rest. You look like you need it.’

‘Do you need my help?’

‘No,’ Washington lies. The devil himself would not encourage him to stir Alexander from his bed right now. ‘I won’t be long. Try to get some sleep.’

It takes longer than anticipated, but Washington finally finishes his last letter, his heart full at the thought of climbing into bed with his boy. It disarms him to think that the most they have done is kiss – it feels like the most intimate of affairs he has had in his whole life. While he craves more, there is satisfaction to be had in the anticipation, and he would never rush Alexander. The boy is too fragile, and he can’t say any different about his own heart.

He wraps his arms around his boy as he slips between the sheets, pressing tender kisses along his neck and jaw. Alexander sighs sleepily, stretching his neck to give Washington access to the more sensitive parts of his throat. In these quiet, intimate moments, Washington is sure he would give up fighting this war in a heartbeat.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Just a note to say there is a bit of discussion surrounding consent at the end of this chapter, just in case it's triggering for anyone. It's all fairly euphemistic, but just in case you want to avoid.  
> Take care of yourselves and thanks for reading. There may be another chapter or two of this left, but we are nearing the end. Do let me know your thoughts/if there is anything you guys would like to see in the future?

‘Wake up, Alexander,’ whispers Washington, shaking his shoulder gently. ‘The sun will be up soon.’

‘Then we have plenty of time,’ murmurs Alexander, trying to burrow further into the blankets. ‘No one will be in the workroom for at least another hour.’

Washington props himself up on his elbow, gazing down at Alexander with a tenderness that makes his heart skip a beat. But there is a tension around his mouth that suggests he is considering his next words.

‘Laurens is due to leave shortly,’ he says at last.

‘Yes,’ replies Alexander with a frown.

‘Don’t you want to say goodbye properly?’ says Washington softy, smoothing his fingers across Alexander’s furrowed brow.

‘No, that would be too hard…’

‘You might regret it if you don’t.’

‘Why are you encouraging this? Can’t you just be happy I’m here, in your bed? Isn’t that what you want?’ Alexander shuffles into a sitting position, grumpy now at having been disturbed from his peaceful slumber to tread this difficult avenue of conversation. He knows he must look childish to Washington, but the thought of climbing out of this warm bed to face saying goodbye to his best friend is almost too much.

‘I need to be sure Alexander. I need _you_ to be sure.’

‘Is my word not enough?’

‘Of course it is. But we have chosen a difficult course, my boy. I need to know I have given you every opportunity to consider this – to back out if you must. If not for yourself, Alexander, then do it for me.’

Alexander swallows. Washington is right. It’s not that he isn’t sure about Washington – in fact, he has never been surer about anything in his turbulent life. But when night falls and the doubts come creeping in, he needs to be sure he has done everything he can to satisfy himself that this is the right path. He needs to do anything in his power to put this particular ghost to rest, even if it means leaving Washington and his warmth and his bed and finding the strength to face Laurens one last time.

With a sigh, he climbs out from between the sheets, pulling on the clothing that he had hastily discarded in his exhaustion last night. Washington watches him from the bed as though he is committing every action to memory.

Once dressed, Alexander makes his way down to the deserted workroom, pausing for a second to straighten his sleep-ruffled hair and wipe the grit from the corners of his eyes. Laurens may have seen him in every state imaginable, but if this is the last time they are to meet, he does not want Laurens to remember him in such disarray.

It is not a long way to the stables, but the snow is unstable beneath Alexander’s feet and he nearly falls several times when the soft white powder shifts unpredictably. He curses under his breath – he does not cut an elegant figure as he stumbles and slides his way towards the building sitting to the edge of the camp.

A familiar figure stands at the door of the makeshift barn, shoulders hunched slightly against the biting cold. Alexander approaches, announcing his presence earlier than anticipated as his foot sinks into an unexpectedly deep patch of snow.

‘My dear Alexander,’ says John with a sad chuckle. ‘I had no idea you knew words like that.’

‘Apologies,’ says Alexander as he catches his breath. ‘It’s not a great last impression but I hope you can forgive me.’

‘I’m just glad you came,’ says Laurens. ‘I wasn’t sure you would. I… erm… well, I came to see you this morning, but you weren’t in your tent.’

Alexander flushes, crimson heat flooding his face.

‘I had work to do,’ he manages at last, hoping Laurens does not read too much into furious heat in his face.

‘I just hope you’re happy, Alexander, whoever it is. What? Don’t like at me like that. I wasn’t born yesterday.’ John reaches out and takes Alexander’s hand. ‘Promise me that you’ll look after yourself?’

‘I promise,’ replies Alexander, realising it is an easier promise to keep now that he has Washington on his side. ‘And promise me you’ll take care out there? No taking stupid risks?’

‘As much as one can in a war,’ replies Laurens and Alexander squeezes his hand tightly. ‘I do wish things could be different, but life has clearly planned a different course for us. I’m glad we can part as friends.’

‘Me too,’ says Alexander.

There is a muffled sound of hooves on snow as a stableboy rounds the corner with a large, bay warhorse, saddled and ready for Laurens’ departure. With a final squeeze, Alexander feels his hand slip from Laurens’ grip for the last time.

‘I really do hope we meet again one day,’ says Laurens.

‘If we want it to be, then it will be so,’ replies Alexander.

Alexander watches as Laurens pats the beast on the neck before checking the girth and stirrups. In a swift movement, he mounts the enormous creature, taking a moment to adjust his reigns before kicking it forward into a tight turn, pointing directly out of the camp.

‘Adieu, my friend,’ he calls to Alexander with a final glance over his shoulder. Then he is urging the horse forwards into a quick trot, disappearing into the trees before Alexander is really ready to lose sight of him. His heart aches as he gazes at the empty space where Laurens was only moments ago. His mouth has gone dry and he struggles to swallow as he surveys the empty landscape.

***

Washington is at his desk when Alexander returns with cheeks flushed with the cold, bright eyes and purple-tinged lips. He has always been too delicate for his own good, and the sight of him there in the doorway makes Washington’s heart swell with fondness and desire in equal measure.

‘Hello, my boy,’ he says, trying to read Alexander’s expression. There are no tears on his face and his lashes aren’t damp, but his demeanour is restless and Washington can feel the pent up emotion thrumming through his veins from across the room. ‘Are you alright?’

Alexander nods, closing the door behind him. He looks lost for a moment, not quite sure where to put himself. He takes a few steps forward and stops, and Washington can sense it is all he can do to stop himself pacing the floor impatiently until he has untangled whatever knot has lodged itself there in his thoughts.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, Alexander.’

‘Can you… can you hold me?’

The innocence of the request almost makes Washington cry out with affection for the boy. He pushes his chair back, opening his arms in invitation. Alexander curls himself onto his lap, pressing his head against the muscular expanse of Washington’s chest, allowing himself to be wrapped tightly in strong arms. Washington can feel him shiver with restless energy and he holds him tighter, as though he can absorb some of the overabundance of feeling coursing like electricity through his boy’s blood.

Alexander seems to calm beneath the extra pressure, his body stilling and his breathing becoming deeper and more regular as Washington maintains his tight hold around him. As long as he can be here in whatever way Alexander needs, he will find some degree of happiness.

Eventually, Alexander shifts in his lap, tilting his head in search of Washington’s mouth. Washington hesitates, but the glint in Alexander’s eyes is impossible to resist and he yields with a hungry moan he didn’t know he was capable of. It is like a spark to dry tinder as the atmosphere between the two ignites. Alexander is a restless ball of uncontainable energy, moving in his arms with a shameless abandon that Washington has never experienced before with a lover. It is enough to make him weak. He surrenders for a few blissful moments, allowing Alexander full control, greedily taking everything the boy offers.

He feels something damp against his cheek and he pulls back, brought back to his senses with an unceremonious abruptness as he remembers that he should be the one taking care of Alexander. Instead he is here, too caught up in his own enjoyment to realise Alexander is crying.

‘Hey, it’s alright,’ he soothes, holding Alexander by the shoulders. ‘We don’t have to do this.’

‘I _want_ to,’ says Alexander, his voice low with an intoxicating mix of desire and emotion. ‘ _Please_ , sir.’

But Washington holds steady. Eventually, Alexander weakens, exhaustion overtaking him until he is curled once more against Washington’s chest. Washington holds him more gently this time, running his fingers through the hair that has tumbled from his queue.

‘No one has ever tried to stop me before,’ says Alexander as Washington wipes the last of the tears from his cheeks.

‘It wouldn’t be right,’ says Washington. ‘Not when you’re so vulnerable.’

‘I thought you wanted to?’

‘God, Alexander. There is nothing I want more in the world.’

The way Alexander looks at him breaks Washington’s heart afresh. The boy is clearly puzzled that Washington hasn’t just taken _everything_ while Alexander is caught in the heat of his emotions. Alexander wouldn’t object, that much is clear, and that’s what makes this all the more dangerous. Washington pulls him close once more, hoping Alexander has not seen the tears threatening to spill over.

‘I want you to understand something,’ says Washington after a few moments of pulling himself back together. ‘There is no rush – for anything. I am not going anywhere. You never have to do anything just to please me or because you think I want it. And if I think you’re doing it for any of those reasons, I will stop you.’

‘But _I_ want to…’

‘No, Alexander. You _think_ you do. Your emotions are all over the place. I would never forgive myself if I took what you’re offering without being sure it was really _you_ offering it, and not just your broken heart.’

Alexander nods against his chest, his hands curling up into Washington’s jacket in a gesture that betrays his vulnerability.

‘Now, let’s take our time,’ says Washington at last. ‘Why rush when we can enjoy it?’


	10. Chapter 10

Alexander moves through the workroom with seamless efficiency, gathering letters and answering queries. As he bends over an aide to offer a suggestion on the missive he’s drafting, he feels the uneasy sensation of being watched. Indeed, as he raises his eyes toward the door, he sees Washington standing there, his eyes fixed unflinchingly, unashamedly on Alexander – with a look on his face that Alexander can’t mistake for anything but _hunger_.

And Alexander is tired of waiting. He doesn’t just want Washington’s _eyes_ all over him – he wants his hands too. Washington has so far been maddeningly restrained – generous with the hungry kisses he bestows on Alexander at every opportunity but exercising the control of a saint whenever Alexander tries to push it any further. They spend every night curled up in Washington’s bed, tangled tightly in an embrace that would damn them were anyone to witness it. But there is nobody – it is always a moment of the most intimate privacy where they can finally relax against each other, letting go of the aches, pains and worries that plague them through the day. Alexander is no longer afraid of the night, he realises. He is no longer afraid of the stillness that comes when darkness falls.

Washington watches Alexander sweep around the room with unmatched grace. As their eyes meet, he sees a reflection of the desire burning in the pit of his stomach. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focussing instead on fielding the many questions that have come his way since entering the room. He spends an hour or so making his way around the room, catching Alexander’s eye every now and again, feeling his face heat at being so thoroughly scrutinised.

As the sun sinks further toward the horizon, he dismisses the aides one by one, the room slowly quietening until only Alexander remains. They don’t speak – Alexander watches him from his desk, his hand no longer darting effortlessly across the page. They have both stilled in what Washington can sense is the calm before the storm.

Alexander does not wait a second more than he needs to once the door has been locked behind them. He has been driven to distraction all afternoon by Washington’s presence in the workroom and he does not intend to wait any longer. Waiting has never been his strong point and his patience has gone beyond its limits.

But to his surprise, Washington meets his advances with a parallel fury. He divests them both of their thick jackets - cravats and breeches join the discarded fabric in quick succession. Perhaps Washington finds it a step too far to remove every piece of clothing right now, but Alexander feels relief at even the slightest liberation.

Washington explores Alexander with a shameless desperation. His hands seek out every inch of skin they can find, caressing and stroking in a rhythmic worship that makes Alexander’s hair stand on end. His mouth is demanding, hot and hungry and Alexander thrills at the sensations he has been so long denied.

‘Is this ok?’ pants Washington, resting his forehead against Alexander’s as they catch their breath.

‘Yes,’ breathes Alexander, dizzy with Washington filling every single one of his senses. ‘God, yes.’

‘Good,’ groans Washington, guiding them back towards the bed, pulling Alexander into his lap. Alexander feels tiny as he straddles Washington, suddenly hyperaware of the size of the broad hands tangled in the back of his shirt. He shivers, intoxicated by the thought.

‘Sir, please don’t stop this time.’

***

The following morning is as dark and cold as Alexander has ever known. He wakes slowly under luxurious blankets, curling closer to the warming bulk of Washington who lies pressed around him, a protective arm draped around his waist. It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

As he nudges himself closer, Washington’s breath ghosts across the nape of his neck, sending a sweet sensation across his skin and an electrical current down his spine. The intimacy of it is breath-taking.

‘Alexander,’ whispers Washington, his fingers sleepily grazing the soft flesh of Alexander’s stomach. Alexander hums contentedly in response, arching slightly into the General’s touch. It’s all so slow and languid – a pace he is not acquainted with, but he feels he might get used to it.

‘We’d best get up,’ says Alexander, although he makes no move to extricate himself from the tangle of blankets or Washington’s embrace. But he hears Washington swallow audibly and feels a deep, shaky breath against the skin on his neck. He realises with a jolt that Washington is crying.

Alexander turns in his General’s arms, careful not to move so far or so fast that he would dislodge himself from the heavenly embrace. They are face to face, Washington with his eyes pressed closed, Alexander with his wide open. The General’s cheeks are flushed, his lashes damp, and Alexander can’t help but run the pad of his thumb across the heated skin. Washington’s brow furrows as Alexander wipes away a tear, and he leans into the touch with a choked sigh.

‘Are you alright?’ whispers Alexander. His fingertips graze Washington’s cheekbone.

‘Yes, I will be fine,’ says Washington after such a long pause that Alexander has forgotten he’d even asked the question.

‘I can leave,’ offers Alexander. ‘If it will help you to gather your thoughts…’

‘No.’ Washington almost growls the word, possession and need rumbling long and low through the single syllable. ‘Please, Alexander.’

Alexander nods, burrowing himself closer to Washington’s chest, running delicate fingers down the solid length of Washington’s bicep. For once in his life, words have failed him and it is all he can do to offer Washington this small scrap of comfort. It has never crossed his mind that they are both as broken as each other, and the realisation ignites a protective fire in his heart. He never thought that Washington’s restraint might be as much about protecting himself as it is about protecting Alexander.

‘Is it about last night?’ asks Alexander, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. He can’t bear it if he pushed the General too far too fast with his restless impatience.

‘No, my boy. Last night was perfect.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘I’m just being a silly old man,’ says Washington with a sigh, tightening his arms around Alexander’s back. ‘We all have our ghosts, Alexander.’

‘I know, sir,’ says Alexander, reaching up stroke his General’s hair. The gesture is a little clumsy – Alexander is not usually the one offering physical comfort – but Washington breathes a deep sigh of contentment.

‘I suppose we’ve both now been witness to each other’s weaker moments,’ says Washington at last.

‘At least now I know you’re human,’ says Alexander teasingly and Washington chuckles in response, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ says Washington softly. ‘Thank you, my boy, but no. It doesn’t do any good to dwell in the past. Not when we have such a bright future to look forward to.’

They hold each other tightly, relishing in the shared warmth on such an ice-cold morning. Eventually, Washington wipes his face with the back of his hand and makes to climb out of bed, but Alexander stops him with a gentle touch to the forearm.

‘If you do ever need anything, sir… I’m here. You don’t always have to be the General carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Not with me, anyway.’

Washington smiles at his boy. ‘Thank you. Perhaps together we’ll find a way through this dreadful war. I hope happiness awaits us on the other side.’

‘Happiness is right here, sir.’


End file.
